A Grave Miscalculation
by ArcAngel-liberty4all
Summary: Tag to Emilie (2x04). What if Aramis hadn't been so nicely treated when he went to Emilie's camp? Emilie is less clear with her instructions and some of her more zealous followers decide to take things into their own hands with Aramis.
1. Chapter 1

It was nearly impossible to take a breath, his strength was utterly spent as he swayed slightly in the aftermath of his most recent beating. He could feel dried blood, sticky in the midday sun down the side of his face and drying in his no longer well-kept hair and beard. His breathing came in gasps, before he had occasionally managed to grasp the rope which bound his wrists, and raise himself up so that he might take one uninhibited breath, but one of his crueller captors had noticed one time, when the blow came it was so unexpected that he had dropped, his full weight caught with a cruel jerk on his wrists.

He believes his right shoulder is dislocated, and his medical knowledge, so vitally needed when one of his friends had been hurt, now seemed like a curse. He knew that hanging like this, his full weight on his arms stretched above his head, wrists bound, one shoulder dislocated could easily mean permanent damage to the ligaments in his shoulder; his dominant shoulder. If the damage was permanent, it could mean a loss of mobility in his right arm, it could mean a discharge from the musketeers. Aramis heard footsteps approaching and the apprehension and fear had built to such an extent that if he had had the strength in his body he would have flinched.

Instead his stomach muscles do a weird twitch as the footsteps get closer. They don't want him dead he reminds himself, not yet. But still he finds himself reciting the prayers he had learnt from childhood, parched lips soundlessly twitching through the familiar Latin as he repents for all he is worth. Suddenly a solid surface appears beneath his feet and he struggles for several seconds before he can convince his feet to take his weight. His body is still stretched taught, his feet cannot quite lie flat on the surface, but he can breathe again.

When the rope stretching his hands above his head is lowered, to his shame in his weakness he cannot keep his balance, but there are strong arms behind him, holding him up, and a water skin is lifted to his lips, he drinks greedily. How long has it been since he last had water? A day? More? He thinks that he only passed one night like that but as he slowly suffocated the world had turned grey and it was hard to tell. The men are speaking but he cannot quite focus on the words. The voices are unfamiliar though, and as his vision returns he realises that this is no rescue, the cruel faces of his captors still surround him, ardent in their hatred of him.

The water is taken away too soon and a knife cuts through the rope at his wrists. He believes that the knife nicks his wrist slightly. There is a fiery pain when the rope is removed but his wrists were so torn and abraded from his own efforts to free himself that it is difficult to tell if the knife cut him or not, impossible to see, there is far too much blood for that.

The arms behind him that had been holding him upright release him and give him a light shove. Probably, he muses, intending for him to step down of the crate he had been standing on, but in his weakness and to his shame he finds himself falling face first into the mud. After a day bound in a painful position his arms are beyond useless and he is unable to catch himself. The impact jars him painfully, and he once again that his ribs are merely bruised or possibly cracked, not broken. If they are broken and he cannot escape then it is almost certain that one will puncture a lung, and that is one thing that there is no cure for.

Someone is kicking him, he realises through a haze of pain. Trying to _persuade_ him to stand up, but his strength is spent and it is all he can do to lie still on the ground. Someone grasps his arms and pulls them behind him, tying his wrists again, although less tightly this time, then he is being by his shoulders, his right shoulder screams at the abuse and he thinks that he cries out, but is unsure. He is being half dragged, half carried between two men. He struggles to get his feet beneath him, and when he manages it, it relieves a little of the pressure on his injured shoulder. He is walking between them, faster than he is truly able to, towards Emilie's tent. His senses are returning to him now and he begin to push through the weakness and once again think like a soldier. They enter the tent and come to an abrupt stop. It takes a couple of seconds for Aramis to adjust to the dimmer light, but when he manages it what he sees makes his heart jump into his throat in horror, yearning and a multitude of other swirling feelings that he cannot quite understand.

Two Days earlier…

"She's sick she's touched in the head." Porthos was saying.

"She fainted while we were speaking with her, apparently she has had this affliction since she was a child." D'Artagnan added.

"Some people call that the sacred affliction. Perhaps she's genuinely blessed." Aramis added, he disagreed with his brothers here, war with Spain could be disastrous, and he could not believe that the lynch mob running around Paris murdering Spaniards but if God truly was speaking through this girl, he did not want to help the king cast her aside before ascertaining the truth.

The other men in the room looked at him sceptically, he stood to join them at the table, defending his point. "With faith, anything is possible. You should all try reading the Bible once in a while."

"Alright, Aramis." With the Captain's hand landing heavily on his shoulder Aramis realised that he may have said the wrong thing. "As you're the expert on God, you can deal with her. Go to the camp tonight, gain her trust, find out what her weaknesses are."

"I didn't become a musketeer to destroy an honest woman's reputation." Aramis protested.

"Would you rather see her march thousands of innocent people to a Spanish slaughterhouse?" Treville was adamant.

"What does the king say about all this? Will he meet her?" Athos's cultured tones came into the conversation.

"The king. He is busy, with affairs of state." Treville left the room, and Aramis resigned himself to his task.

"Go on then Aramis, after all, anything is possible with faith." Porthos was amused.

"Just because you choose not to put your trust in God, doesn't mean that I can abandon him so lightly." Aramis was on the defensive now, unhappy about the task he had been given.

"Do you think you can do it? I know you have a way with women Aramis but this girl is incredibly pious. A radical. You saw her this morning she ardently believes that God is speaking to her, no matter how irrational those delusions are. And you are saying that they might not be delusions? You were there this morning the girls mad! Besides it's quite clear that musketeers are not welcome in her camp." D'Artagnan was doubtful to say the least.

"You should go in as a deserter." Athos was the one for strategy as always. "It is well known that the king has refused to see her and that the authorities are hostile to her cause. If you go in as a musketeer, it is unlikely that you will learn anything of use. Claim that you were inspired by her words and claim to want to join her cause. Even if she doubts you a little a trained soldier is likely enough of a boon for her to accept you into the camp at the very least."

"A deserter?" Aramis understood the need for subterfuge but it made his stomach turn to think of abandoning his brothers, even as a ruse. But then, if D'Artagnan could do it so convincingly so could he.

"Indeed. Do you think you can report to us in two days, or would three be better? Allow you to further ingratiate yourself into the camp."

"I think three days, the longer I remain with her without making contact the more she will trust me. We should have a meeting place closer to her camp, just in case I feel I can learn more of interest by returning. Besides, the less I come and go the better I believe." Aramis was thinking strategically now, trying to put the moral implications of what he was doing aside for the moment.

"It's decided then I will ride with you most of the way tonight and we will set a meeting point. I believe it is better we do not set a meeting time, because there is no way of knowing what time you will be able to slip away." Aramis was grateful for Athos's professional attitude, especially as neither Porthos nor D'Artagnan were taking it seriously.

"Well then I will take my leave of you gentlemen and see you this evening." Aramis stood.

"Whose the lucky lady this time?" D'Artagnan smirked.

"A gentleman will never kiss and tell, but suffice to say that I would not want her to believe that I have stood her up, I would rather she still receive me when I return." And with that Aramis took his leave, intent on surprising Marguerite, and hopefully ensuring his welcome by explaining his absence for the next few days.

That evening…

Aramis and Athos rode through the woods at a light trot, leaving the path approximately thirty minutes walk before they reached Emilie's camp. They slow to a walk and keep going for about ten minutes before they reach a small clearing. There is a rocky outcrop at the edge nearer the camp providing some camouflage that would hide the light from a fire.

"You knew this was here." Aramis said as he dismounted, he removed the saddlebag and manoeuvred it so that it was over his shoulder but beneath his cloak.

"I did. This is the meeting place, it will take you approximately forty minutes to get here by road or if you cut through the woods, there is an animal trail that will lead you here in approximately fifteen minutes. I believe it is close enough to suit while being far enough away to be undetected."

"Well then, I shall see you in three days." Aramis said with a grin, as he passed his reigns to Athos, who was going to take her back to the garrison. Aramis turned to follow the animal trail towards the camp.

"And Aramis." Athos's voice rang out across the clearing. "Good luck." Aramis waved a hand in acknowledgement, before disappearing into the darkness of the forest.

Aramis followed the trail and found it emerged on the main trail, a couple of hundred yards from the river at the edge of the camp, but round a bend so that it was concealed from view. He raised his hood as he crossed the river, and was able to walk unnoticed through the men and women sharing company and food round campfires. He silently entered Emilie's tent. Meaning to explain how much he had been inspired by her words that morning. He never got the chance.

A man entered the tent, one he had noticed that morning, a fighter. He came at him, and Aramis was able to throw him aside, another came and Aramis's focus was completely on the fight, but as more men came, and he found himself facing more opponents at once hands, too numerous to belong to just one or two people were on his arms, forcing them back, restraining him, holding him in a position on his knees, torso bent forward, facing the ground. He strained his neck as he twisted to look at Emilie, who appeared shaken and startlingly young all of a sudden. His earlier words to the captain sprung to mind, _I did not become a Musketeer to ruin an honest woman's reputation_.

"He looks Spanish to me, kill him!" The Mother said, her eyes cold and cruel.

"I'm French" He tried to say, although it came out slightly blurred as he realised that he had made a gross miscalculation and he was now going to die for his mistake. He heard the weapon being raised above his head, tried desperately to brace himself for the impact, knowing it to be too small to take his head off in one swing and more than likely his death would be agonisingly drawn out over several seconds.

"Wait." That was Emilie. The hands holding him loosened ever so slightly so that he was able to kneel up and look into the room

"This man is a kings musketeer, I recognise him from this morning."

"I'm a deserter" Aramis quickly tried to recite his story. "I heard you preach. I was inspired. I've come to join your cause."

"I'm sorry but I don't believe you. However, you are one of the king's men and I love the king. These people have gathered here for him. We cannot make an act of aggression against him by killing one of his soldiers." Emilie seemed indecisive about the best course of action to take.

"Take him away, find out what he knows and why he's here." The Mother cut in and Aramis found himself being jerked to his feet and away, he was marched towards the edge of the camp and found himself being bound to the trunk of a tree. The ropes around his wrists so tight he can tell that it is only a matter of time before he looses circulation. He glares defiantly up at the jeering faces surrounding him. This has gone very, very wrong.

They do not ask questions. Not at first. At first they kick him, repeatedly, in the ribs, in the legs. At first he kicks back but his ankles are swiftly bound together and to a stake that is driven into the ground, holding him, not completely still, there is some small movement, but not in any way enough for him to remain a threat to them. It is all he can to attempt to roll with the blows, it feels as though his body has turned into little more than one massive bruise. His attempts to reason with them are quickly stopped, by a gag being forced into his mouth, cloth, slightly moist and stinking of sweat. The taste alone is enough to make him gag, but when a particularly vicious blow across the cheek snaps his head round. The gag probably saved him from biting through his tongue.

The abuse is so continuous that he thinks they must be doing it purely for the sport of it. He has in fact, almost forgotten that they will ask him question until finally they stop.

"That _musketeer_." Sneers the man who seems to be in charge, a weather beaten face with features that could have been genial were they not twisted into a cruel sneer. "Is just a small warning of the pain that awaits you should you choose not to answer our questions." The man's mousy brown hair is very thin Aramis notices, although he could not have been more than mid-thirties.

The words send a frisson of dread through Aramis's heart. When he had been captured before, although it was not in any way a regular occurrence, having occurred only a small handful of times over his decade as a soldier, twice his captors had thought to torture him for information. Apparently nobody had told them that torture very rarely yields accurate information, instead the victim tends to say whatever the other party wants to hear. But both previous times the instigators had been military men themselves, if not professional investigators. Men who knew the human body in intricate detail and exactly how much it could take, how much pain they could cause while giving the least amount of permanent damage. This knowledge in itself was terrifying. But these men who had him now, they were not military, they were farmers seized with zealous loyalty. No doubt they intended to keep him alive, but these men didn't know the limits of human endurance, and it would be frighteningly easy, Aramis realised, for them to kill him inadvertently, to go too far without ever meaning to. He didn't want to die.

He realised he was being unbound from the tree, the gag removed from his mouth. He was held fast in place although in truth in his current condition it was unlikely he would have been able to take even one of them out, and was methodically stripped until he was simply in his shirt and breeches, his weapons, jacket, hat, cloak, even his boots were taken from him. His wrists were refastened behind him and his feet bound and he was dragged over the rough ground to the edge of the jetty where he was dropped unceremoniously into the river. To effectively bound to swim Aramis found himself sinking, unable to take a breath. Did they mean to drown him?

The cold water burned as it forced its way into his lungs. Then there was a hand in his hair, lifting him to the surface. He gasped for breath. The questions began.

"Why are you here?"

"What were you hoping to achieve?"

"Were you sent as an assassin?"

"Why won't the king see Emilie?"

The only question Aramis answered was the accusation that he was an assassin, which he vehemently denied. His captors didn't like that though, refusing to believe him.

The interrogation went on for what felt like hours, by the end Aramis was grey faced from the cold river water and shivering. He realised that should he live long enough he would be lucky to avoid pneumonia.

His captors seemed to tire of him, and he was slung, none too gently, beneath a tree, still bound hand and foot, and one man guarding him by aiming a pistol, his pistol he noticed detachedly at him. Dawn began to arrive and Aramis gave in to the merciful oblivion of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

AN- Sorry for the long wait. Here is the next chapter. I have just started training for a half marathon so I have less free time than before. There will be one maybe two more chapters after this. As always thank you so much to everyone who followed etc, especially those of you who reviewed. On with the story.

It had all gone wrong. Anne had heard many things about Emilie, but she had thought that she would be able to reason with her. If Louis would not give her an audience then Anne felt that she might be able to at least listen to Emilie's concern's, try to make her see reason, try to make her see her as a woman, and not just some distant Spanish queen. She had lived in France for a decade now and had long since eradicated the Spanish accent she had arrived with, it took a couple of years of concentration and careful tutelage, but she had turned her very strong French skills and now sounded and understood the language as if she had been born to it.

But here she was, and to her regret, so was Constance, a woman who although not particularly long in her acquaintance had proved her closest friend and confident, trustworthy enough not to spill her secrets to anyone, even D'Artagnan, whom she knew Constance to be madly in love with. It was, Anne had realised, a point of connection both women had married for reasons other than love, and both had been relatively satisfied, if not happy in their marriages, and both of them had found love elsewhere and discovered what life could be. Although Constance did not realise how closely Anne identified with her on that last matter. Their acquaintance was as yet only a few months long, and while Constance's adultery would be frowned upon, it was not a crime. Anne, on the other hand, would be executed should her own adultery become known, as would Aramis, most likely Athos although Anne had no idea if Athos was aware of what had happened at the convent, and if Constance was found to be aware of Anne's crime she would not be spared the noose, although innocent of any crime herself.

No. Anne had put Constance, her now very dear friend in enough danger already, without adding to it by telling her all her secrets, however much she wished to on occasion.

Here they were, more out of her depth than Anne had ever felt before, even when she was fourteen and found herself Queen of the French court and tasked with the challenge of gaining their true respect rather than just gestures to indicate it. Something she believed she had now done, although it had taken many years, the birth of the Dauphin securing the respect of the few groups who had still disliked her. There would always be gossip, but gossip she could live with, especially as none of the gossip that she was aware of had indicated any awareness of the truth between herself and Aramis.

Emilie had been disinclined to listen to her, and had turned angry and hostile when Anne had emphasised the message of love that filled the new testament. It hadn't helped that her Mother, a woman who seemed both cruel and proud had suggested that they should execute her, and the king marry 'an honest French woman' seemingly completely ignorant of what that would cause. Anne's brother was King of Spain and her brother-in-law was the Holy Roman Emperor. France would likely find itself at war with both were she to die here, and war and needless loss of life was exactly what she had been trying to prevent. She had been trying to save these people by deterring Emilie, but if she died, if they killed her. Louis was not a strong king but he had shown his ruthlessness before when angered or the people close to him threatened. He had shown that when Constance had taken the Dauphin, despite her intent to cure him, and it was not until her cure had worked that Louis' anger had abated. His current infatuation with Milady may continue, but Anne had been one of Louis' closest friends for nearly a decade, and were she to die she did not doubt that her husband would have this camp raised to the ground, thousands of people slaughtered needlessly and those who survived publically executed. Anne could only pray that it would not come to that. That these people, these innocents who truly believed in their cause could be persuaded to disperse.

Anne had been shocked when one of the men at the bridge had called her a "Spanish bitch". She was of course aware of the word, but it was probably the first time someone, who was not her younger sister had insulted her quite so openly. Of course her little sister was now the Holy Roman Empress and considered one of the great beauties of Europe and albeit in a loving way, would probably take great pleasure in mocking the foolishness of her elder sister, who until recently was widely thought to be barren, and had merely achieved the rank of Queen. Afterwards of course dear little Maria would give her a loving hug, and share a hot chocolate with her, getting Ana, as had been her name in Spain before her marriage, to confide in her, and praying out loud in thanks for her safe return. Anne felt tears prickling at her eyes. She might never see little Maria again, or her son, or Aramis, or anyone she cared about with the exception of Constance again. Dear, wonderful Constance with her fire, and her own mind and her sympathetic ear and her enormous heart, who through Anne's foolishness could very well be doomed to die.

'Get a hold of yourself, Ana' She thought furiously, her thoughts had been racing to the worst possible outcome. 'You are a Queen, the Queen of these people and you will conduct yourself as one. Emilie might yet listen to reason'. But it took courage to work up to another conversation with Emilie, who in truth she did not find anywhere near as threatening as her mother, who seemed to be the one truly in charge here.

Anne and Constance were sat together on a palate near one wall of the tent, the mother sitting smugly on a chair that almost seemed to resemble a throne, and Emilie knelt in prayer, seeking guidance on what to do next. Anne was gripping Constance's hand tightly, as much for her own comfort as for her friend's, but she dared not speak. A tall, heavily muscled man with a hand resting casually on a sword hilt and his gaze fixed upon them seemed to forbid it.

"I wonder why you came yourself, your _Majesty_" The Mother said, the honorific dripping with disdain. "Your husband already sent a spy into the camp, a Musketeer who claimed to be a deserter, trying to take advantage of my daughter's naivety and gain her trust so he could report back to your king. Although maybe he wasn't a true musketeer at all but a Spanish spy sent to your court. He kept denying he was an assassin or a spy but eventually as we questioned him he started begging. It was a surprise when in his exhaustion and pain he started begging in Spanish." She was taking a cruel satisfaction in telling this tale. Anne struggled to keep the horror off her face, although years as a politician and a Queen certainly helped in that regard. She would not be surprised if her nails had broken through the skin on Constance's hand though, and she dared not look at her friends face. She knew of one Musketeer, one highly trusted Musketeer, who was half Spanish on his mother's side, and although he had grown up in a border region of France and had soldiered for France since he was a teenager, he spoke Spanish like a native. If there was any of the Musketeers who would slip unknowingly into Spanish when exhausted and in pain it must be Aramis. But, Anne couldn't, mustn't despair of her lovers fate until she knew for certain.

"There are no men who are more loyal servants of France than the Musketeers, Madame. What did you do to this man, if you have murdered one of the King's soldiers, I doubt that will encourage him to grant your daughter a fair audience." Anne had fully stepped into the role of Queen now, coldly staring this woman down.

"Mother? What did you do to him?" Emilie sounded scared, apprehensive. Anne looked over and saw a woman who was barely more than a child, an innocent; someone who had no real concept of her mother's cruelty. Anne realised that it was not Emilie, but her mother who was the true architect of this campaign and who had incited such hatred against her countrymen. The Mother had not registered her daughter's distress.

"It took us some time to decide what would be a fitting punishment, a Spaniard, and one who claims to be truly holy and a Frenchman, no less. As if any Spaniard could truly be close to God with the devil as their King. So we decided the most fitting death for the servant of the devil who claimed to have religious faith was to die as our saviour died, although we wouldn't grant him the honour of the same wounds. Do you know how long it takes to die of crucifixion? Three days. We strung him up by his wrists yesterday afternoon, he won't be dead not yet, but he'll be feeling it. A slow death by suffocation. You should be thanking me; no doubt I've rid you of a Spanish spy in your court." The Mother was clearly gloating, especially as Anne could no longer keep her horror contained, no doubt it showed clearly upon her face. She was glad that she was sat down, had she been standing she may have fainted, her corset, something she was entirely used to now seeming uncomfortably tight and seemingly inhibiting her breathing. Why hadn't she noticed this before?

"Mother why would you do such a thing?" Anne looked up and to her relief saw her own horror reflected in Emilie's face, the poor young girl was looking at her mother as if her mother had just become a stranger to her. "I wanted you to find out why he had come here, I didn't intend for you to torture him and I certainly didn't want you to murder him. I thought that maybe we could truly convince him to come to our side! I thought that if he saw the nobility of our cause he would champion it and maybe win me an audience with the king. Cut him down now and bring him here. I need to apologise, I need him to realise that I did not wish this for him." The mother looked furious at her daughter's heartfelt objection.

"Emilie." The tone was wheedling and false, "You are young, an innocent! God gave you to me to protect, and he was a threat I needed to protect you from."

"He is one of the King's soldiers. I have dreamed that he himself escorts me to my audience with the King. You will cut him loose and bring him here now!" Emilie now took on the role of a commander, the military commander that Anne had heard of. The Mother's lips thinned in anger, and she left the tent. Emilie turned to the queen.

"Your majesty" from Emilie's lips there was no hint of disdain in the word, "please believe me I knew nothing of this, had I known I would have stopped it." Emilie now looked apologetic and horrified and unbelievably _young_. Surely she was of an age with Anne herself, but Anne having been coached for and then thrust into the role of Queen at just fourteen, when in truth she had been barely more than a child herself had left little time for innocence. Anne wondered if she had ever been so naïve. She found her mothering instincts reaching out to Emilie, her son was only a few months old, but symbolically she was the mother of the nation.

"Your response to this does you credit child. It is clear that this was not you but your mother. You have my thanks for stopping this and saving the musketeer's life, assuming that at this point it can be saved. I'm sure you would agree with me in the belief that there is not a scenario on earth where I believe God would condone torture." Anne was trying to be comforting but as soon as she mentioned God she saw Emilie's anger start to rise again. Thankfully the woman calmed herself before replying.

"I thank you for your understanding." The words were polite but the tone was cold. Anne fell silent again, her stomach knotting in dread at what might be the condition of the man being fetched. To her shame she found herself wishing for the man to be any musketeer but Aramis, all the musketeers were brave men and had her greatest respect, but Aramis had her love. She felt guilty for wishing harm on another, but her soul longed for Aramis to be spared this torment.

There was rustling outside the tent, and two men entered, dragging between them a half-naked, bedraggled figure, his arms still bound behind his back and his head tilted forward onto his chest. They dropped him and he fell heavily to his knees struggling to maintain what little balance he could hold on to. He lifted his head. It was Aramis. He was looking straight at her and what had been fire and defiance but a moment ago, eyes projecting a confidence his body no longer had the strength to do so, melted away into honest fear. Fear for herself, Anne realised. He had thought he could handle this treatment, but clearly, at the risk to herself her brave knight was unravelling.

Doing the only thing she could think of Anne donned her most regal persona.

"Cut his bonds. Now." She snapped, and her cold authoritative tones were obeyed almost instantly. "Constance." She said, not looking at her friend who was likely just as horrified as herself at Aramis's treatment. She walked to Aramis and crouched in front of him, motioning for Constance to take his other side.

"We're going to help you to the bed, Aramis." She found herself speaking softly, as if to a child. He nodded, his eye not leaving hers. She gently manipulated his left arm so it was around her shoulders, and braced his body against her own, noticing Constance bracing herself similarly against his other side, although his right arm remained hanging uselessly, the shoulder swollen and misshapen. Together they lifted, while neither was particularly weak, with Aramis struggling to support even a small fraction of his own weight Anne found herself panting with the effort as the three of them stood. The stayed there for several long moments, as Aramis took some of his weight himself. Then it was a slow shuffle over to the pallet they had been seated on.

By the time they lowered Aramis to the bed his eyes were clenched tightly against the pain of his injuries and a slight sheen of sweat covered his brow.

"Oh my poor knight." Anne murmured, too quiet even for Constance to hear, "what have they done to you?"


	3. Chapter 3

AN- in apology for being so remiss in updating this story earlier here is another update. So it turns out that this story is going to be longer than I'd originally planned and apparently the different chapters are from the perspective of different characters, who knew? Certainly not me when I started writing. This is Constance's perspective, the next chapter will be Aramis, followed by Athos I believe. Enjoy, and thank you so much to everyone who responded. Please, please review and let me know what you think!

Anne and Constance worked together in tandem. Using all her authority, both what came naturally and what had been drilled into her through her royal education, Anne had had supplies sent, although privately Constance thought that Emilie would have done almost anything to help Aramis at this point. The woman seemed very young, not that Constance knew her real age, she could still be a teenager for all that Constance knew of her; but the way Emilie sat there, watching from a distance, white as a sheet at the horror these people, her followers, had inflicted upon Aramis. The girl had likely never seen anyone beaten so badly before in her life, Constance certainly never had.

Removing Aramis's shirt had been a challenge, any other day Constance might have suggested cutting it off to spare him the pain, the shirt was clearly beyond salvation, but as far as they were aware Aramis had no other with him, and she would not wish on him the vulnerability of being more naked than he already was in strange and hostile surroundings. They had carefully bunched the material so the bottom edge was just below Aramis's armpits. Anne had then lifted his arms and rested them on her shoulders so that they were almost perpendicular to his body. The three of them then worked together, for Aramis to roll his spine of the pallet, head tucked into his chest, just enough so that Constance could swiftly remove the shirt.

The act which Aramis should have been able to accomplish unaided had left him almost grey with pain and exhausted. Constance was loath to let him sleep, as much pain as he had to be in, his medical knowledge far surpassed both her own and she imagined, Anne's. They needed his guidance if they were to provide him with any relief at all. When the spasm of pain he seemed to be going to passed, his tense muscles released somewhat and he opened his eyes.

"Water?" He managed, it was the first word he had spoken since entering the tent and Constance found herself wincing at its quality. His throat must be dry and raw. By the time she had begun to look for a water skin, the Queen was there already, gently supporting Aramis's head as he drank, lowering him back to the pillow.

"You must tell us how to help you, Aramis" Anne said, her tone remarkably calm and collected. Aramis nodded.

"My right shoulder, it's dislocated, badly and has been for some time. It's too swollen to go back in, so some cold clothes to help the swelling go down." His voice started to fail and his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment as he lost track of what was going on.

"Aramis you must stay with me." Anne was once again firm yet commanding.

"Your majesty, are you hurt? Is Constance?" Aramis's eyes were once again focused and bright, slightly too bright Constance noticed.

"Both of us are fine, it's you we're worried for, you are badly injured." Aramis seemed to take comfort in Anne's grounding presence, but the non-sequiter worried her. She placed a hand lightly on Aramis's forehead. Constance bit her lip at feeling the heat there, not too high, not yet, but if they remained here much longer and the fever rose it could prove Aramis's undoing. Silently she wet a rag in cool water and placed it on Aramis's forehead, the soldier closed his eyes and relaxed a little into it's comfort.

"Aramis, we're going to clean your wounds." Anne was saying, Aramis just nodded, the urgent strength he had shown a moment ago in his concern almost gone. "Are you hurt badly anywhere we cannot see?" Anne asked. Constance was worried, worried for them both, Anne's distress at the situation was clear as crystal to her, though the Queen was managing to hold herself together. As Aramis slipped back into a fevered and uneasy sleep the two women worked together, cleaning the grime away from his skin, the multiple small lacerations. They tried not to put too much pressure on the colourful bruising that covered the man's torso and extended where they could not see beneath his remaining clothes.

Remembering something Aramis had once said, when she'd been present while he was cleaning Porthos up after a bar brawl, Constance inexpertly felt his abdomen for rigidity. Rigidity was bad, she knew. It meant that there was bleeding inside the body. Aramis had mentioned that this was usually fatal but there were some herbs that could help slow the bleeding. Constance could not remember which herbs he had mentioned though, nor did she know how she would get hold of the necessary herbs if there was. Finishing her light examination, Constance did not think that there was an unnatural rigidity, but she did not know. She could not be sure. Constance found herself wishing earnestly that D'Artagnan was there, or Athos, or Porthos. They would no doubt have the knowledge to be able to help Aramis, the wits to get themselves out of here and the strength to carry Aramis home.

The strength to carry Aramis she did not have, nor the medical knowledge they most probably needed, but she did have wits; wits and some small skill in combat should it be needed although in truth when a soldier as experienced as Aramis had been overpowered so easily, she was not sure that her luck would be any better. Aramis now somewhat clean, the bruising they had been able to see on his back much less brutal than the bruising on his front, Constance replaced the cool cloth on his forehead and sat back to think.

Aramis's eyes flickered open again, and Constance found herself ignored completely as he focused on the Queen. She didn't let herself be too offended, it was obvious that Aramis greatly admired the Queen, an admiration that was clearly reciprocated to some extent, after all, she had gifted him with the jewelled crucifix he often wore, although that was missing now.

"Would you pray with me, my lady?" He murmured, his voice soft, but sounding less painful than before.

"Of course." Anne smiled at him. To her surprise, and to Anne's too if Constance could see correctly, Aramis started to recite in Spanish. He was speaking a little too softly for Constance to catch even a little of what he was saying, her Spanish being so limited it may as well have been non-existent, but it must have been a well-known prayer in Spain for Anne was murmuring responses in a similar cadence. Constance found herself feeling strangely awkward, as if she was interrupting something private and very special.

Constance rose and moved a little way off, not wanting to intrude.

"Why do you not pray with them?" Constance was startled. She had almost completely forgotten about Emilie's presence in the tent. 'A foolish thing to do' she admonished herself internally, had she truly been a musketeer she would never have let her guard down so.

"My latin is not good enough to follow." Constance said, deciding the pair was speaking softly enough that her deception would not be discovered. "I prefer to pray in French." Emilie nodded, accepting her answer, before turning away herself to make her own prayers.

Time passed, nearly an hour if Constance was any judge, and the sun was beginning to set. She knew Aramis to be a pious man, certainly more religious than the others in their little group, and she had discovered Anne's faith to be earnest and devout. Of course piety was almost a necessary quality in a Queen, but Constance had found herself surprised by the depth of Anne's faith. Of course she believed in God herself, and trusted in Him, but her prayers were more often than not rote offerings memorised in childhood, or desperate pleas in times of need, such as when she discovered her husband had sold some of her jewellery, gifted to her by her grandmother on her wedding day, in order to pay off his gambling debts, using the excuse that her property was legally his as she was his wife when confronted by her grief and anger.

'D'Artagnan would never be so callous', Constance found herself thinking, and blushed in shame. Here she was considering the idea of continuing her adultery in the same thought as she considered how much she respected the piety of her friends. How the depth of Aramis's faith, when she had discovered it had awakened in herself a deep admiration and even jealousy of his ability to trust in the Lord so fully and wholly. His life was richer for it, she could tell, even though his dalliances and adultery, so much worse than her own he was grounded in his faith. Anne was the same, her faith shining from her and shown in her almost inexhaustible kindness, although Constance had never known the Queen to visibly sin to the extent of many of the ladies at court, Anne had once said to her:

"to be human is to sin, we are none of us without our faults, the beauty of the Christian faith is that God loves us no matter how far we stray, and his forgiveness is endless, all you have to do to be forgiven is to approach him honestly and ask." Once again Constance had found herself humbled by her mistress's faith and the kindness of a woman, who the world was no being kind to at the moment. Anne had said this not long after the Dauphin recovered from his sickness, while the king seemed to be spending every spare moment in the company of Milady. He still was, Constance noted, and while he humiliated his wife, she had more or less taken up the mantel of ruling the country.

The Mother entered the tent, as menacing and formidable as ever, she carried a pile of bowls and a small cauldron of soup, not wasting time as she passed a hostile glare over first Constance, and then the Queen, and finally Aramis, lying still on the bed, although his eyes were open and he had become very guarded and alert as the Mother entered, finishing his prayers with a brisk, 'Amen'.

The Mother set down the cauldron, and first ladled a portion into Emilie's bowl.

"You must eat. Keep up your strength so that the lord may do his work through you." There was no hint of the malice that had been clear in her continence just a moment beforehand, instead replaced with a caring, mothering tone. Emilie smiled her thanks and took the bowl, but made no move to eat. The Mother then ladled some soup for herself, and gave a bowl to Constance, but then settled down to eat. She had brought no more bowls into the tent, clearly having no intention of providing food for a Spanish Queen who she hated, or a soldier who she believed to mean her daughter harm, no matter how pitiful his condition. Anne was not one to demand food for herself, but neither would she stay silent at Aramis's mistreatment. Despite her own hunger, Constance was about to move over to the pallet, so that Aramis at least, if not both her friends could share in the meal.

"Could Aramis have some soup? You have provided him with no food since he arrived at your camp two days ago, you may have stopped torturing him, but you continue your attempt to starve him to death?" Anne's voice was cold with anger and authority. The Mother seemed about to respond in kind, with some sort of cutting remark accusing Aramis of being an assassin or some similar nonsense, but Emilie got there first.

"He can have mine." She said. "I'm not hungry." Constance thought she saw a seed of mistrust in the look the woman gave her mother, possibly seeing some of the cruelty in the woman who had always protected her, but it was gone so quickly that Constance thought she may have imagined it.

Constance, took the proffered bowl, and brought it over to Anne, who wasted no time in beginning to feed Aramis. His compliancy was almost amusing. On one previous occasion, when Aramis had been ill with the flu and too shaky to even hold the bowl, the illness having made his limbs horribly weak, despite his inability to do so he had firmly protested his independence and objected thoroughly at the prospect of being fed like a child. Here he was allowing it without so much as a murmur of protest. It could be the severity of his injuries, or the location in a camp full of people who would quite willingly do him harm, but Constance was inclined to think that it was his admiration for Anne working, and the intimacy the gesture allowed would no doubt be welcomed.

Aramis barely managed more than half the bowl before falling back against the pillows, exhausted, slipping easily back into that uneasy fevered sleep that he had fallen into earlier. Constance and Anne lay down together on the floor, taking comfort in each other's presence. It was not the first time Constance had slept next to the Queen, unwritten tradition dictating that on the nights the Queen did not share the king's bed, one of her ladies would sleep in her bed with her to ensure her chastity, but there was a world of difference between a spacious bed in the palace and a sisterly embrace on the hard ground.

"Aramis has arranged a rendez-vous with his fellow musketeers tomorrow." Anne's voice was a soft whisper in her ear, so soft that she almost had to strain to hear it. "It is in a clearing not too far from here. If at all possible we must convince Emilie to release us. If we can get there and meet up with the others we will be able to return to Paris safely I believe."

"You weren't praying were you?" Constance murmured, amused despite herself at the deception.

"We were." Constance could hear the smugness in Anne's tone despite the faintness of the whisper. "But we were also planning. I would have included you but you don't speak Spanish and I didn't want to risk being overheard. He also told me off thoroughly for my foolishness in coming here, although I think he was more scared than angry." Constance smiled, surprised by Aramis's audacity in telling the Queen off.

"Well when we've rescued him you can point out that he probably owes his life to our foolishness as he puts it." Constance murmured. In the dark, Anne pressed a sisterly kiss to her cheek.

"I am sorry for the danger I have put you in, Constance, but I am glad you are here with me. I am glad to have a friend." Constance smiled at the honesty. She too had found a dear friend in the Queen, in Anne as she had begun to think of her, and the support she provided for the Queen, she found returned in kind.

"Get some rest," Constance whispered, giving Anne a light hug. "We will need all of our wits come morning."


	4. Chapter 4

AN- Again, generic thank you to all responses. You make me smile. I worked really hard on the dream sequence in this chapter which was quite difficult to write so any feedback is greatly appreciated.

_ The first thing he felt was cold, an icy chill seeping into the fabric of his very bones, transforming him from flesh and blood to being numb and brittle as glass. He could see his brothers, bodies ravaged in the snow, stripped of anything of value, each covered with gaping, red wounds that did not bleed. Dead men could not bleed_

_ He heard them before he saw them, black as death or night, circling overhead, monstrous silhouettes against the white sky, heavy with the promise of further snow. Their inhuman screams rent the air with the horrifying promise of yet further destruction as they desecrated the bodies of his friends, his brothers and transformed those who should have been awarded a heroes burial into mere carrion in the forests of Savoy._

_ The crows' screams became louder, and what he might once have been able to dismiss a the noise of an animal now held for him an unrivalled terror. A weight landed first on his stomach, then another on his leg and he closed his eyes against viewing the fate that was about to consume him. He was alive, he wanted to scream; but if he was alive then why couldn't he move? Why couldn't he scream?_

_ Peck. Peck. Peck. Sharp, staccato pains burst out over his body, where the crows were beginning to feed. Minute pulses of all consuming agony. His body was hard and brittle as bone china from the cold, so very brittle that he could almost hear the cracks. At first short, sharp snaps, each of which lanced with pain for an instant, followed by a deeper groaning and shifting; alike to thick ice that is just beginning to give._

_ His body was brittle, too brittle to withstand the assault. It was coming apart; deep, dark fault lines spreading through his flesh like tendrils of acid, the cracks getting louder, and louder and louder until with a deafening snap he felt the tension that had been holding his body together give and he snapped in two. This motion seemed to break a dam and after a moment of threatening silence, his body began to fall apart along the fault lines, as he disintegrated into a pile of sharp hard pieces of marble like flesh._

_ There was a slower more horrific crack and he found his head rolling down a small embankment, the pain was gone and instead was the bizarre awareness that he'd left half his jaw behind, being squabbled over with the rest of the shards that had once made up his body. He was rolling downwards, bouncing off rocks and sticks and others before coming to a far too sudden stop._

_ Dizzyness whirled about him and there was a roaring in his ears. Slowly his vision came back into focus but the roaring remained. He could see D'Artagnan, lying there among the dead. But this was wrong. D'Artagnan wasn't at Savoy, when Savoy happened D'Artagnan would have still been a nineteen year old farm boy working in Gascony._

_ The roaring in his ears grew louder and changed. He focused on D'Artagnan's face and watched as it regained it's colour. They were not in Savoy, not anymore, they were in a square in Paris, and he was looking down at D'Artagnan, near the front in the midst of a crowd of people, features hardened in despair. He wanted to reach out, reassure the man go to him. Where were Athos and Porthos? He wondered, surely they would not leave D'Artagnan alone in what was quite clearly a time of need. His gaze shifted, scanning the hungry jeering faces of the crowd, before he found Porthos, face similarly wearing an expression of grief, looking up at him._

_ He started to shiver and became aware that he was dressed only in a thin shirt in the cold winter air. He found his wrists bound together in front of him, he looked around, and off to his left, standing with several of her ladies, including Constance was Anne. She was wearing a plainer gown than he was used to seeing her in, he realised, and her hair had been carefully pinned up under a plain white cap. As close as he was he could just about make out tear tracks slipping down her face as she met his eyes and offered him a small smile._

_ He looked down, a couple of paces in front of him was an ominous red stain, blood he realised, thick and viscous soaking irremovably into the rough-hewn boards beneath his feet. He looked to his right and saw a very familiar body being lifted by several musketeers and placed in a plain, unadorned coffin. He would have liked that, Aramis thought, not one for ostentation was Athos. His stomach flipped as he watched one of the older recruits carefully wrap his friends head before placing it almost reverently in the coffin._

_ He looked out across the crowd, finding the faces of Porthos and D'Artagnan once more, and finally glancing to his beloved Ana before a blindfold was wrapped about his eyes and hands on his arms gently guided him to his knees, a final kindness for a condemned man._

_ He heard rather than felt the swipe of the sword and felt his body falling, sticky, viscous blood soaking into his hair, his beard, his clothing. Rivers of blood fleeing the body that had housed it._

"Aramis."

_ Rivers of blood coating him in red._

"Aramis!"

_Rivers of blood drying on rapidly cooling skin._

"Aramis!"

He rose gasping in a painful jerk as the movement pulled on his damaged ribs and deeply bruised flesh. His breath was coming in jagged sobs and thick tears rolled unstoppably from his eye. The voice that had roused him from his slumber was now murmuring gentle Spanish platitudes and a pair of strong, slender arms encircled him and firmly drew him in.

He found his head buried in the crook of her shoulder, arms wrapped around her living body fingers reflexively clutching at the fabric of her dress as sobs ripped through his body. It had been too real, too possible for it to be a wholly natural dream. He had suffered nightmares before of course, what soldier hadn't? But not like this, from his nightmares before he had been liable to wake shouting, screaming, swinging a weapon or a fist but not helplessly sobbing like a child into the shoulder of his lover.

At this moment he found he did not care, and buried himself into the comfort of his Ana, here with him, safely holding him, and guiding him through the aftermath of the dream. He breathed in her scent and gradually the sobs stilled. He should draw back he knew, Anne was not his lover here but his queen, a woman he would protect with his life, a woman currently held hostage in an enemy camp, and he, her champion found himself wholly dependent on her. Still he was unwilling to let go, to let the moment end. Ultimately it was Constance delicate hand on the back of his shoulder that fully reminded him where he was and the danger he was in and had him pulling back.

He met Emilie's eyes over Anne's shoulder.

"God spoke to you" She said, her eyes bright with amazement. "He sent you a vision." Aramis found himself nodding. He fervently prayed that it was not God who had sent that vision but it worked to his advantage at the moment. She shook her head, almost breathless with excitement.

"Then I cannot keep you here any longer, you are also one of his chosen. In the morning you may go, all of you, on the condition that you get me an audience with the king." Her words were hard with righteous determination.

"I will do everything in my power to make that happen. I promise you." Anne said, softly but with all the authority of the Queen she was.

Now the adrenaline of the nightmare was wearing off, Aramis's injuries started to protest in earnest and it must have shown on his face, as Constance and Anne swiftly moved to lay him back down.

"Just a few more hours, my beloved." Ana murmured in Spanish, passing a gentle hand over his face. "And I will get you back to your brothers, it will be okay. You will be well. I promise you. You will be well." And as he drifted back to sleep for the few hours before dawn, Aramis found he trusted her completely.


	5. Chapter 5

It was a beautiful day, Athos decided. It was bright and sunny with the cautious warmth and cool breeze of early spring. It was very early really, too early, they had arrived at the meeting point an hour ago, just in case, but Athos anticipated Aramis making contact somewhere between late morning and early afternoon, probably would communicate the information, and depending on the situation either accompany them back to Paris or return to the camp to gather more information and provide them with a man on the inside.

Regardless, Athos found he had missed Aramis's company; Athos himself was not generally one for idle chatter, but the way Aramis had of instinctively knowing when he needed a silence to be filled and when he needed it to be left was bordering on uncanny. Still, it wasn't a bad assignment, Treville had automatically assigned D'Artagnan, Porthos and himself as Aramis's contacts, and on a day like this the clearing chosen for a meeting point was an idyll. The sunlight dappled on the grass and the gentle laughter of a small stream that fed the nearby river was easily audible.

They had not needed to light a fire, or indeed make camp at all, so the horses were quietly grazing, Aramis's mount having been brought along with the rest, Porthos was putting D'Artagnan through his paces with hand to hand combat, arguably currently one of D'Artagnan's weaker skills and so one that needed more work. Not that D'Artagnan could be viewed as a weak fighter in any aspect anymore. He had been a musketeer for the better part of two years now and was certainly a formidable soldier rather than the green farm boy with some skill at sword work he had been when he arrived. Formidable soldier or not, Porthos was having no trouble landing D'Artagnan in the soft grass again and again, his bulk and years of experience honing this particular skill working to his advantage.

"You know, you don't have to throw me to the ground every time." D'Artagnan remarked as he picked himself up once again from the downy grass.

"You need to practice your falls, besides most opponents won't wait for you to be ready to go again, they'll just attack you while you're down. You need to be able to get up quicker." Porthos grinned.

"And you couldn't just tell me that's what we were practising?" D'Artagnan asked dryly.

"Of course not, how would you learn if you didn't have to work it out for yourself." Porthos smirked before launching another attack at the young man who agilely dodged it; unwilling to practise his "falls" again any sooner than necessary. Athos cracker a wry smile at their antics as he leant back against a tree and took in a lungful of the crisp, cool air; he had grown up in the countryside, and although much of their work had them travelling along country lanes, he had missed the leisure to just sit and enjoy the freshness of his surroundings, something which now seemed doubly poignant after so many months spent almost solely in the closeness and grime of Paris. He had a book open on his lap, a slim tome containing some Latin poetry, but it failed to hold his interest. Instead it lay open and forgotten on his lap as he relaxed in the cool air and tuned into his surroundings.

But it was different. It wasn't quite the peaceful background to the laughter and gentle teasing of his brothers that it had been a moment ago, something was off.

"Be quiet." He raised his voice just enough for the command to carry over to Porthos, and by extension D'Artagnan who was currently trying to find a way out of a headlock. At his command a slight frown appeared on Porthos's face as he released D'Artagnan, whose flushed features held an equal amount of concern and curiosity.

"What is it?" The speed at which Porthos snapped from messing about to alert soldier was impressive through years of living in almost constant danger. Even Aramis, the professional soldier who prided himself on being able to go from sleeping to alert in moments couldn't match it, however often he claimed he could.

Athos shushed him and pricked his ears, trying to work out what was different, what was wrong, it could be a false alarm but as always it was far better to assume the danger was real and act accordingly than assume it was false and be surprised. He listened carefully, all of his instincts putting him on edge, but it was still a few more seconds before he identified the sound.

"Someone's running, towards us." He said succinctly, as he sprung to his feet in readiness of the new visitor.

"Aramis?" Porthos asked, unable to hear the sound himself. Athos shook his head.

"The footsteps are too heavy. Aramis has had training, and he grew up in the country, he knows how to move quietly through woods, even at speed." The situation was baffling. If not Aramis then who else knew they were there? It could be a stranger, someone who happened upon them by accident, or perhaps someone from the camp, either way Athos did not wish to be discovered, if it was someone from the camp then Aramis's cover story would be thrown into doubt if three musketeers were found waiting in the woods nearby, and he did not wish to put his brother in jeopardy.

The footsteps grew louder and it was clear that Porthos and D'Artagnan could hear them too from their alert postures and finally the intruder came into view. His years first as a Comte and then as a soldier insured that Athos was not often surprised but this was certainly one of those moments. Of all the people he might have expected to come crashing through the woods to their clearing, a frightened looking and slightly dishevelled Madame Bonacieux had not even graced the list.

"Constance!" D'Artagnan cried in concern, wrapping the young woman in his arms for a moment, his own shock completely visible as he held the woman he loved for too short a time before she drew back, catching her breath while D'Artagnan wrapped her visible trembling shoulders in his cloak. Her speech came in urgent starts, disrupted by breathing so harsh it might be more accurately described as sobbing.

"You must come quickly. Aramis has collapsed. We were trying to get him here but we couldn't carry him. I don't know if he's… You have to hurry…" As astonished as he was by the turn of events and the extreme worry that gripped his heart like ice at the words "Aramis has collapsed" Athos knew he needed to be a leader if he was to help his friend. Something had clearly gone badly wrong.

"Madame Bonacieux, take a deep breath. Can you tell us where Aramis is?" He asked in a steady voice that utterly belied the anxiety that was beginning to grip him.

"Down the path." She said. Athos nodded once before replying.

"Porthos and I will go, stay here with D'Artagnan, catch your breath and explain to him what happened and what in the world you were doing at Emilie's camp." A flush more likely to be anger or indignation than embarrassment rose on Constance's cheeks but to his relief she nodded and allowed D'Artagnan to lead her to where Athos had been sitting before and lean her against a tree.

Athos didn't linger another moment before he was running at a swift sustainable pace down the path he had showed Aramis a few days ago, although it felt like much longer. He did not check, but trusted that Porthos would follow him, knowing the other man would be at least as worried about Aramis as he was. He ran for a few minutes, trees flying past him as he followed the animal trail, until rounding a bend he caught sight of Aramis.

He did not expect to feel anger at Aramis when seeing him, maybe towards whoever had hurt him, but not at Aramis himself. Strictly speaking this could not be Aramis's fault as he was currently unconscious but the situation was too dangerous for reason to truly enter into it.

Aramis's body was stretched out deathly still on the forest floor, his face pale and covered with bruises. This was horrifying in itself, but Athos found himself angry because his brothers body was cradled in the lap of the Queen. The Queen who was currently cradling Aramis and rocking his body slightly as a stream of entreating Spanish came from her lips. Athos pushed his anger aside, as foolish as Aramis was being with the Queen he had no desire for his brother to die over it, and if his stillness was any indication, death was certainly a possibility so he strode the last few steps and dropped to his knees facing the Queen.

"Your majesty?" He asked, duty requiring him to ask after the health of her majesty first. When she looked up he found what anger he was suppressing evaporate in favour of intense sympathy for the young woman currently cradling one of his closest friends in her arms. He found himself forcibly reminded of the first time he had met her, some ten years previously. He had come to court having just come into his title and she had only recently been married to the King. Fourteen years old, graceful, courteous and intelligent with all the regal bearing that suited her station; Athos had not spoken to her then but had seen her at several occasions. He remembered feeling sympathy for the young queen and being impressed by the way she rose above clear taunts, exchanged in French between her ladies in waiting to quickly for her to follow. He also remembered being struck by her youth; here she was the Queen of France, symbolic mother of a great nation and clearly in several ways mature beyond her years but she was still young, still so innocent. Being slim and small of stature at just fourteen years old she looked like a child, a beautiful child but a child none the less, not yet the woman she was expected to be.

It was the child that he saw so clearly now, although the Queen currently had none of her refined grace and regal bearing that commanded such respect. Instead her appearance was dissheveled, eyes slightly puffy from crying and tears still streaming down her face, and it was the fear and grief that shone so openly on the face of the young woman, out here in the woods, an openness that Athos had never once seen on the politician that made him realise quite how young the Queen was. How young both she and Aramis were really.

"Athos." She said relief cracking her voice as yet more tears streamed down her face. "Please, you have to help him. He can't die! Please Athos." Athos found himself humbled as his Queen; a woman he had the utmost respect for and for whom he would lay down his life if necessary, begged him to save Aramis's life. For a moment he was struck speechless, wanting to be able to help Aramis, to comfort the woman who was currently showing such blind trust in him, but the truth was he was unsure where to begin. Her majesty was so devastated, and Aramis so terribly hurt. He had never imagined or anticipated a situation such as this, not for what was supposed to be a simple intelligence gathering task, and he certainly never imagined that the Queen would be involved.

"If you can let him go your Majesty, we will carry him to the clearing and assess his wounds there." Thank goodness for Porthos, who was no doubt even more surprised at the situation than himself seeing as, as far as Athos knew, Porthos was unaware of the true nature of Aramis and Anne's relationship. Then again, Porthos was more perceptive than many gave him credit for and it wouldn't surprise Athos if Porthos had worked the truth of the matter out. The Queen nodded and pressing a kiss to Aramis's forehead gently laid his shoulders back on the grass before stepping away. The action felt a little too reminiscent of a final goodbye for Athos's tastes but he said nothing as he moved to Aramis's feet, and Porthos moved to his shoulders so that they could lift him.

"Careful, his shoulder's badly dislocated. We would have put it back but it was too swollen." The Queen said quickly. Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, clearly a multitude of injuries were hidden beneath the leather doublet Aramis wore, and they changed positions so they could both wrap an arm beneath his shoulders and knees. When they stood the slight height difference between the two made the position a little awkward as Aramis's head lolled lifelessly onto his chest and tilted slightly towards Athos; arms that would normally be around the shoulders of both men, bracing Aramis in their hold folded gently to rest on his chest by the Queen herself.

The walk back to the clearing felt infinitely longer than the short run there. Carrying Aramis as they were they could not run back, nor would they risk hurting him further by attempting it, and the way the quietness of the wood was broken by the occasional quiet hitch in the Queen's breath underlined the gravity of the situation to all present. So it was nearly a quarter of an hour later when they finally re-entered the clearing. Once there, the Queen rushed into the arms of a waiting Constance who gently soothed her blond hair as she turned to watch Athos and Porthos carefully laying Aramis on the ground. Thankfully in their absence, D'Artagnan had prepared a pallet, made up from horse blankets and packs as they had not been anticipating a long stay. The basic medical supplies they had brought with them out and ready along with two bowls of clean water, one cold and one nearly at boiling point over a small fire and a skin of wine from Athos's horse if needed.

They worked together swiftly and gently to divest the unconscious man of his outer clothes so as to gain further access to his injuries. For the sake of the Queen Athos kept his reactions under a tight lid, but in all his years of soldiering he had rarely seen a man so brutally and completely hurt. When Aramis was lying just in his smalls, his shirt being nowhere to be found, Athos and Porthos drew back a little so that D'Artagnan could examine him, as Aramis had been training D'Artagnan in the basics of field medicine for months.

The examination was swift, although all the men were relieved when an examination of Aramis's ribs brought a whimper of pain from his lips. He was not so far gone yet. Finally D'Artagnan rocked back on his heels.

"Well?" Athos inquired.

"We should sit him up as much as possible; it should ease his breathing and relieve the pressure on his ribs." Athos's jaw tightened at the half truth, but he aided Porthos and D'Artagnan in shifting the man so that there was a small pile of packs propping him half upright.

"And the rest D'Artagnan." Athos's tone allowed for no more evasion. The young man drew in a shaky breath and visibly unclenched his muscles.

"I'm not a physician, Athos, and you know that my skills do not even begin to amount to those that Aramis has at his disposal." He started.

"Just say what you know." This was Porthos, mediating what could have escalated into a quarrel between himself and D'Artagnan. Athos was grateful, tensions were high enough as it was.

"As far as I can tell there is no internal bleeding, but several of his ribs are cracked and at least three broken, so that doesn't mean there won't be. The bruising is deep but should heal, albeit slowly. His ankle is almost certainly broken, but I would rather a physician set it, if I were to do it incorrectly and cripple him he would never be able to serve with the musketeers again. He has a bad cold, which could turn into pneumonia. I think it is that and the pain of his injuries that is keeping him unconscious along with the exertion in getting here, I found a head wound but it was a few days old and not serious from the look of it. He needs a physician Athos, here, and a cart to take him back to the city. We cannot risk riding with him." Athos drew in a deep breath as he took in what D'Artagnan had said, true his examination was inexpert but it gave Athos hope.

"Alright. Porthos, D'Artagnan, take the Queen and Constance back to the palace. Then brief Treville on the situation and return with a cart." Porthos and D'Artagnan both looked reluctant to leave Athos but both stood to obey the order. It was the Queen who objected.

"I can't leave him."

"Your Majesty, from your company and attire I can only assume that your trip was clandestine. Unless you return to the palace very swiftly you will undoubtedly be missed." She looked like she wanted to keep arguing for a moment, but then her face crumpled, and she allowed Porthos to help her onto a horse. The four horses left swiftly leaving Athos alone with Aramis. A man injured due to himself. He had made a grave miscalculation in sending him here.

Nearly an hour later the quietness of the wood was once again broken.

"Athos?" A weak voice asked. Athos looked down at Aramis and a pair of confused looking brown eyes stared back at him. For all the gravity of the situation, Athos felt like jumping for joy, Aramis was awake!

AN- I cannot decide who's POV to put the next chapter in so if you have a suggestion please leave it in a review!


	6. Chapter 6

AN- Hello, I'm still alive. Thank you so much to those of you who reviewed and encouraged me to update in the past few weeks, without your encouragement this chapter would not exist.

Please remember, this is from Aramis's perspective, and the way Athos's words and emotions are perceived are not necessarily the way they are felt. Also, apologies for Aramis's behaviour, but in his defence, how reasonable would you be with broken bones, a dislocated shoulder and no anaesthetic?

The first thing Aramis was aware of was a disorienting pain which consumed him, a distant fire which whispered through his battered body before settling at his shoulders, his ribs, his ankle. He could not, dare not move and it seemed like an eternity before the fire dulled into a bearable ache, something which no longer consumed his entire faculty.

Where had he been? They had left, he recalled, left Emilie's camp with her blessing, while the Mother glowered on looking beyond mutinous. He had left under his own power, he was sure of that, but they had barely entered amidst the cover of the trees before his dearest Ana was manipulating his, well not good but at least significantly less bad arm over his shoulder in order to bear some of his weight. He had kept it together just about, at least he thought he had, enough for them to find the animal trail that led to the clearing that served as his rendezvous point. And beyond that, beyond that his mind was blank.

Worry seized him. What if they had not managed to find Athos? What if he was still alone in the woods with the Queen and Constance. He was well aware of Constance's resourcefulness and ability with a blade and Ana herself was an intelligent and capable woman, but he was not a small man, he doubted their ability to carry him, and any woman, any _person_ travelling alone in the woods was vulnerable. If they had not made the rendezvous then they were still in danger. It was this thought more than any other which persuaded him to make the final push into consciousness and open his eyes.

At which point he immediately closed them again being unprepared for the sun's glare. He tried again in a series of cautious winks until his eyes were finally comfortably open. The blurred edges of his vision disintegrated away to eventually leave a clear image. There was a figure sitting beside him, Athos. He was safe. His brothers had found them.

He lay there, as still as possible so as not to reignite the fiery pain when he aggravated his injuries and attempted to summon his voice into a usable state. It was at this moment that Athos looked at him.

"Aramis." Athos' tone was one of thinly veiled relief. "It is good to see you awake, brother."

Aramis nodded slowly, and Athos slipped a gentle hand beneath his head and lifted a water-skin to his lips. When he had taken some water, Athos set him down and Aramis drew in a breath, as deeply as he dared and dampened his lips with his tongue.

"The Queen? Constance?" The absence of his two companions had not gone unnoticed, and while he doubted that his health would be prioritised over the safety of the queen, he still had to know.

"Headed safely back to Paris in the competent care of Porthos and D'Artagnan, who got the fright of his life when he realised that Constance had also been a captive in the camp and is therefore very unlikely to risk any harm to either of them." Athos's tone was once again one of patient control.

Usually among the pair of them it was Aramis who filled the silence, but he found that this day he had no strength to. The Queen was safe, and he had the intelligence they needed, but the pain from his shoulder was making itself known. It couldn't have been put back yet, Aramis realised, it must still be too swollen. With the way he had been tied and the pain radiating from the joint, he was painfully aware that there could be permanent damage, permanent loss of mobility in his arm. The King had no use for a disabled soldier, and even if he managed to regain partial mobility in his arm he would still be a liability in a fight. And if he lost his commission, even in honourable circumstances, he would likely also lose all opportunity to know his son in any way more intimate than one of the anonymous adoring masses who cheered for the Dauphin whenever he would make a public appearance, and that hurt almost equally to the possibility of having to watch his brothers ride off into danger and have to stay behind, no longer able to guard their backs.

The silence that stretched between them was not a comfortable one. It was heavy with unanswered questions on the part of both men, but Athos had never been one to either push for his brothers to confide in him, or confide in them, instead trusting that if the need arose another would take the initiative, and this day Aramis who so often was able to be silver tongued, found he had no words to give voice to the worries that churned inside him.

Eventually, an unmeasured amount of time later, the silence was broken.

"I was right about Emilie." Aramis stated quietly.

"Pardon?" Athos sounded sceptical to say the least.

"This, my injuries, imprisoning the Queen, none of it came from Emilie, it is her mother who is driving this. A bitter woman who has taken to power with far more of a lust for it than suits a good leader. She is the one pushing, she is the one who is rallying farmhands and ostlers and making them into fanatics. If it was not for Emilie, her mother would have had me executed when I first entered the camp. She then interpreted Emilie's desire to have me questioned as permission to torture me. Emilie was horrified when she realised what had been done. The girl is far more innocent and naïve than we realised, she is little more than a pawn being manipulated by her mother. I believe it was more Emilie's reaction to the way her mother had tortured me more than anything else which encouraged Emilie to make the decision to let us go. Anne agrees with me, Emilie is as much a victim here as those who are caught up in the violence of the mobs."

There was a moment's silence.

"Anne?" Athos asked quietly, his countenance unreadable. And for some reason this sparked a defensive anger in Aramis.

"For all our sakes I have kept away, kept my distance. But I had feelings for her long before I acted on them, and those feelings will not go away because of the danger they put us in. I love her, my friend! I know I must never act on those feelings but when fate brought us together, admittedly by horrifically dire circumstances, I could not help but cherish the time allowed us, to speak together, to..." Aramis found himself forcibly cut off then, in his passion he had pushed his damaged ribs further than he should have and found himself dissolving into painful, hacking undignified coughs. He found himself rolling slightly onto his uninjured side and hacking sputum into the grass. He was vaguely aware of Athos rubbing reassuring circles into his back and when Aramis finally regained his breath, he was there again with the water-skin, the worry once more visible in his friends tightened jaw.

"You didn't...? With the Queen I mean? Not again?" Bitter disappointment rushed through Aramis, as his friend revealed the source of his worry.

"Of course not." Aramis responded. "We were never alone, I wasn't allowed the _opportunity_" His voice dripping with scorn. Aramis regained his temper enough to add, marginally more reasonably. "I know how much danger we were both in from the moment we slept together the first time, I love her enough not to increase that danger by doing it again, espescially not in the midst of an enemy camp."

"You love the Queen so much that you would betray her by sleeping with her servant so you could secretly spend time with her son." Athos's tone was calm, but his words stung in the truth of them.

"I admit that in that way I am treating Marguerite poorly, but I love her no less than I have loved many of my previous mistresses, and I need to see my son. You have never been a father my friend, but you are no stranger to pain. Surely you can empathise with the pain of having a living child, whom you love but whom you cannot see, whom you cannot even acknowledge because to do so would mean his life was forfeit!" Aramis searched his friends features, his anger, his impatience, his pain, all of them would be lessened if Athos could only see, if he could just understand Aramis' torment.

Athos remained as impassive as ever and did not look at Aramis, not even a glance to ascertain the truth in his words.

"This discussion will not be resolved today. Nor do I wish to resolve it while you are exhausted and half beaten to death with the beginnings of a fever." Aramis tried not to flinch from the coldness of Athos' words, from the indignity of being dismissed like an over exhausted child. Hurt welled within his chest of an entirely different sort from that which had been plaguing his body for the last few days. Athos could not have understood his behaviour less or been less empathetic if he had denounced Aramis' treason before the King himself. For someone who knew him so well, and whom he held so dear to react with such a lack of compassion, stung.

Aramis held his silence, and followed Athos' example of avoiding eye contact as he tried to gather his thoughts and quell his emotions before the return of their friends. Knowing that he could not put them in danger by burdening Porthos or D'Artagnan with the source of his troubles, for all he had yearned for the company of his brothers; Aramis suddenly felt incredibly alone.


End file.
